


This Story has a Happy Ending

by xylodemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Magical Healing Cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Cas tries to fuck the Mark of Cain away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Story has a Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tumblr post](http://itsalljohnlock.tumblr.com/post/116622898203/im-not-saying-that-cas-can-just-fuck-the-mark-of). Spoilers though 10x20.

"You gotta be shitting me," Dean says.

Cas just stares at him. The kitchen tries valiantly to fill the silence, the lights humming overhead and the fridge kicking on with a dull rattle. Dean leans back against the counter, poking a bag of chips with his elbow. Finally, Cas crosses his arms and says, "No, I'm not... shitting you."

"Cas, you -- you." Sighing, Dean rubs his hand over his face. "That's crazy."

"The Mark is evil," Cas says gravely, which -- yeah. Dean already knows that, thanks. "We can't do anything about its taint, not unless we find a cure, but the side effects --"

"I'm fine."

"-- anger, anxiety, irritability, irrationality --"

"Hey."

"-- insomnia, restlessness, mood swings, violent tendencies --"

"Okay, okay," Dean says quickly. "I know I haven't exactly been a ray of sunshine, but I don't see how _that_ \--" Dean waves his hand around; he can't make himself say it, not to Cas "-- is gonna help."

"Orgasms are relaxing," Cas says, deadpan as anything. Dean's brain short-circuits for a second, like it can't decide if it wants to be embarrassed or turned on. "They release endorphins, prolactin, oxytocin --"

"Okay, Bill Nye. That's enough boring science talk." Sighing again, Dean glances around the kitchen so he doesn't have to look Cas in the eye. This might be the most awkward conversation he's ever had, and he gave the sex talk to Sam and Ben. 

"Dean, I --"

"Look, if you really think it'll help, I'll just -- you know --" Dean makes half a rude gesture "-- a couple times a week, and --"

"You haven't been."

That's true; Dean hasn't been. Probably hasn't in about a month. However: "How the hell do you know that? Are you -- we talked about this. You can't just snoop in people's brains."

Cas has the nerve to look offended. "I haven't snooped. Your brother suspects --"

"You talked to _Sam_?"

"Well, I couldn't talk to you," Cas snaps. "You've never been forthcoming, but recently -- you refuse to have a serious conversation about anything."

More silence: Dean deflates a little, nudged off-balance by the soft, sad downturn of Cas' mouth. He knows he's been kind of a dick the last few months; he's just so tired of all this Cain bullshit. He's tired of the constant slow burn on his arm, and he's tired of Sam and Cas watching him like he's going to snap and pull a Jack Torrance at any minute. As ridiculous as the idea sounds, Cas is only trying to help.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says. "Okay."

 

+

 

Dean doesn't want to talk about this in the kitchen, not when Sam is home and could wander into the middle of it. He grabs two beers from the fridge, then gestures for Cas to follow him and slinks down the hallway to his room.

He drinks the first one while pacing the narrow space between his dresser and the foot of his bed, deliberately not watching as Cas shrugs out of his coats and unknots his tie. Cas has been doing that more and more, making himself comfortable when he plans to stay for longer than a couple hours, and Dean is weirdly pleased by that, that Cas feels at home enough in the bunker to ditch his angel uniform, but he also finds it incredibly distracting. He always ends up staring like a creeper, transfixed by the strong line of Cas' forearms, the curve of Cas' neck.

"Okay," Dean says finally, clearing his throat. "The thing is, I haven't -- um. I'm --"

"Masturbation makes the Mark angry."

"Jesus Christ," Dean snaps. Everything short-circuits again; his face heats and his dick gives a twitch. He drains his beer, clearing his throat again as he sets the empty bottle on the dresser. "Yeah. It -- yeah."

Angry doesn't even begin to describe it. The last time he'd beat off, everything had started out fine, but he'd come to the thought of blood running between his fingers, red and sticky and warm. The Mark had raged on his arm like a storm, and he'd clawed his free hand into the sheets so hard he'd torn them.

"That's interesting," Cas says thoughtfully. He sits on the edge of the bed, one leg folded on the mattress; the headboard bumps the wall as he leans back against it. "What do you think about?"

Dean blinks. His dick twitches again, but it's nothing compared to the heat crowding under his jaw. "Dude, come on. I'm not telling you that."

"Dean, I'm trying to help you."

"Yeah, I know," Dean mutters, snatching the other beer off the dresser. It's no longer as cold as Dean usually likes, but opening it gives him something to concentrate on besides Cas, on the way Cas is watching him: calm, unflappable. The truth -- _you, I think about you, about kissing you, about finally getting my hands in your hair, about sucking you off in the back of my car_ \-- is too much. Dean wouldn't even know where to start. "I just -- you know. I think about things. People. Stuff I'm never gonna have."

"You feel lonely," Cas says slowly. "That... actually makes sense. The Mark feeds on negative emotions -- any negative emotions. Even those that aren't outwardly violent."

"So, what? You think I need happier orgasms?"

"I think you should try having sex. With a partner."

 

+

 

Dean takes it back. This is _definitely_ the most awkward conversation he's ever had.

"So, that's it?" Dean doesn't want his beer anymore; he sets the bottle on the dresser a little too hard, grumbling as beer slops on his hand. "Your big plan to fix me is just me taking some chick for a ride?"

Cas shrugs in a way that's irritatingly human. "I assume taking a man for a ride would have the same effect." He shifts on the bed, the frame creaking softly in complaint. "Nothing is certain, but I do think the neurohormones and --"

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, waving him off. "Okay. I guess I'll just -- you know. Go find a partner."

That sounds easy enough, but Lebanon isn't exactly a swinging singles hot-spot. He sometimes thinks Donnie is interested, but he hasn't been back to the bar since that thing with Rowena. He doesn't know how much Donnie remembers from that night, or if he's even still welcome there.

"You know what? Forget it."

"Dean."

"Look, I get that you're trying to help, so: thanks for that. But I can't -- it wouldn't be cool, picking someone up just so I can pound out my issues. And this thing --" Dean rubs his arm, where the Mark is writhing like a snake "-- I don't want -- I could --"

"Dean," Cas says again. The bed creaks like he's getting to his feet, and then Dean feels a hand on his shoulder, solid and warm. "It was just a suggestion. If you're truly uncomfortable, you don't have to try it. But --" he squeezes Dean's shoulder "-- Dean, look at me."

Reluctantly, Dean turns around. His face is on fire and his heart is beating in his throat; Cas studies him for a few seconds, then leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. It's slow and soft; it would be so easy for Dean to tip his head the right way, to run his tongue over Cas' lips, to tug Cas closer by the front of his shirt.

Instead, he pulls away as much as he can with the dresser at his back and says, "Cas," in a shaky voice. "What -- what are -- what --"

"You need help," Cas says, like it's just that fucking simple.

 

+

 

The beer on the dresser is warm and flat, but Dean drinks it anyway, downing it in one long, gross swallow. After that he starts pacing again, his nerves jittery and the Mark whining on his arm like an air-raid siren. When the door creaks open, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

"It's just me," Cas says quietly. "I asked your brother not to disturb us."

"What did you tell him?"

Cas shrugs. "The truth."

"Great," Dean says, snorting out a short, mirthless laugh. "Fucking great."

"Dean, if you're uncomfortable, we don't have to do this."

"No, I -- I want to. I'm just..." Dean shakes his head, his throat tight; he doesn't even know what he's trying to say.

They just stare at each other for a minute, Dean leaning back against the dresser and Cas standing at the foot of the bed. There's only one lamp on in the room; in the dim light Cas looks carved from stone, like a marble statue from a church. Dean is already half-hard, keyed up from anticipation, from having wanted Cas for years.

"We should probably get undressed," Cas points out.

For some reason Dean expects Cas to mojo his clothes away, but he takes them off like a normal person, working the buttons on his shirt before shrugging it down his shoulders, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his shoes and socks. Underneath his slacks he's wearing white grandfather boxers, a size too big and totally shapeless, but Dean mostly notices the solid curve of his legs, the line of dark hair arrowing away from his navel. Dean is down to his jeans by the time Cas is finished; Cas tugs him closer by the belt, working his fly with steady fingers, then pulls them down and rests his hand on Dean's naked hip, using the warm touch to urge Dean onto the bed.

Their first kiss is kind of awkward -- Dean is still kicking his jeans the rest of the way off, and Cas' knee slips on the bed as he's leaning in -- but then Dean turns his head and their mouths slot together. After that, everything is just really, really good; Cas presses in closer, sliding his hand over Dean's jaw, brushing his thumb behind Dean's ear. He kisses Dean slow and easy, like they've got all the time in the world, but also a little bit dirty, his teeth catching the well of Dean's lip, his tongue pushing into Dean's mouth.

The Mark starts to stir, burning under his skin with a relentless, furious heat; Dean panics for a split-second, afraid that he'll do something horrible, that he'll try to hurt Cas, but Cas just murmurs his name, soft. He mouths at the corner of Dean's jaw, all stubble and warm breath, and he strokes one of his huge hands over Dean's dick, dragging his fingers up the length of it, rubbing his thumb over the head. Dean pushes up into it, arching off the bed and making a low, desperate noise behind his teeth.

Cas shifts closer still, tangling their legs. His dick pushes against Dean's hip, hard and hot, and Dean runs his hand down Cas' side, tucking it between the tight press of their bodies. He traces the shape of Cas' dick with his knuckles, then slips his palm over the head; Cas moans into his throat, biting a kiss there as he catches his breath, and Dean wraps a hand around him, everything wet with precome and sweat.

The Mark howls when Dean comes -- Cas holds him through it, one hand in Dean's hair and the other still teasing Dean's dick -- but then it quiets and stills, its anger ebbing out like the tide.

 

+

 

Cas is gone in the morning.

Dean isn't surprised -- there's probably heavenly bullshit going on somewhere -- but as far as Sam is concerned, Dean could've used the backup. He spends his first five minutes in the library futzing with his coffee and pretending to read the newspaper; when he finally looks up, Sam is watching him expectantly over several lore books and a bowl of oatmeal.

"Morning."

"Cas said he be back in a couple days if we don't call first," Sam says, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "Did you guys really --"

"Nope. No way. We are not talking about this."

"Okay, okay," Sam says, holding up his hands. "I'm just glad you guys -- you know. Worked it out."

Dean sighs into his coffee. "It's not like that. He's just helping me out."

"Sure, dude. Whatever you say."

 

+

 

A couple days later, Dean and Sam are in Omaha investigating some desecrated graves. Cas meets them up there, pulling into the windswept parking lot just as the sun is starting to sink behind the bruise of a horizon; Sam mutters something about getting a second room, and ten minutes later, Dean is sprawled out on the bed and Cas is licking a wet stripe up the length of his dick. 

"Jesus Christ," Dean hisses, clawing at the scratchy sheets. 

He's pretty sure Cas hasn't done this before, but inexperience isn't making him tentative or shy. He's ferociously enthusiastic about it, taking Dean in as deep as he can, wrapping his hand around whatever's left, swirling his tongue over the head when he pulls up to breathe. The wet heat of his mouth is incendiary, and he doesn't bother trying to swallow his spit, just lets it run down Dean's dick until everything is sloppy and slick. His other hand is like a vise at Dean's hip; he keeps Dean pinned to the bed, digging his thumb into Dean's skin whenever Dean starts to thrust.

The Mark scrambles to keep up, but Dean comes before it can really gather its strength.

When Dean looks down he finds Cas watching him, dark eyes and sweaty hair and an impossible sweep of eyelashes. His mouth is red and wet, and he has come smeared on the well of his lip; Dean hauls him up for a kiss, moaning when he tastes himself there, salty and sour. Cas' dick nudges into the crease of Dean's hip as he slides up Dean's body; he makes a low, needy noise, rubbing himself there hard and fast.

"Your soul," Cas says, biting Dean's throat. "It's so beautiful when it shines -- I've missed seeing it."

Cas shouldn't talk like that, not when he's only doing this to keep Dean from losing his shit, so Dean pulls him close, kissing him until he comes.

 

+

 

Cas fucks Dean at the bunker a week later, sitting up on knees with Dean's ass in his lap, a strange, opened-mouth look on his face as he watches his dick disappear into Dean's body. Three days after that he fucks Dean in a cheap motel in Sallisaw, backing Dean up against the wall and hooking his arm under Dean's leg, the door rattling in its frame with each desperate, uneven thrust. The next morning, Dean blows Cas in the back of the Impala; it's early enough that it's still dark outside but late enough that the parking lot is slowly starting to come to life, and he fucks his own fist as he sucks Cas' dick, comes because Cas keeps pulling his hair, won't stop saying his name.

The Mark is still there, aching on the inside of his arm like a sore tooth, but the edge is gone. He no longer feels like he's constantly balancing on the blade of a knife.

 

+

 

They grab breakfast after a vamp hunt in Mason City, Dean and Cas on one side of the booth while Sam hogs the other with his laptop and four newspapers.

Sam orders an egg white omelet and Dean orders the chicken-fried steak. Cas orders a coffee; when the waitress leaves he rests his hand on Dean's thigh, and he leaves it there until they get up to pay the bill.

 

+

 

The motel room is sticky and hot, even with the air conditioner whining in the corner, Dean has sweat beading at his temples, gathered in the dips behind his ears. He rolls his hips, his breath catching as Cas' dick shifts inside him, pushes in deeper. The chair isn't really big enough for two grown men, and it creaks every time Dean moves, shudders like the legs are going to collapse. Digging his fingers into the dusty armrests, Dean rolls his hips again, smiling when Cas moans against his shoulder. 

"Come on," Dean says, turning his head, breathing out against Cas' cheek. He's so close; he just needs Cas to _move_. "Fuck me."

Cas hums under his breath, then bites a slow kiss into the back of Dean's neck. Dean squirms in his lap, running his foot down Cas' shin and tipping his head back against Cas' shoulder. The chair creaks again, and then Cas starts to thrust, hard and fast, just like Dean wants.

"Fuck," he says, heat curling around his spine. "Fuck, yes."

Cas holds one hand at the center of Dean's chest, slides the other down Dean's arm until their fingers are tangled together.

 

+

 

Cas rides shotgun on the first leg of the trip home; Sam has a headache and wants to sleep. Once they hit the open road, Cas slides along the bench seat until he's close enough to touch. Their knees bump, and then Cas rests his hand on Dean's thigh, just like he had at the diner the other day.

Dean wraps his arm around Cas' shoulder, tucking Cas close against his side. On his arm, the Mark is barely a buzz.

 

+

 

Sam corners him at a fuel stop in Sioux City, trapping him between the car and the pump while Cas is inside the store, presumably buying another dumb knick-knack for Claire.

"So," he says quietly. "You and Cas."

"I already told you, we're not talking about this."

"Okay, but, when you told me we weren't talking about this, you also told me it was just about quieting the Mark."

"It is."

Sam leans his hip against the car, tucking his hair behind his ears as the wind tries to blow it in his face. "Are you sure? Because that's not what it looks like."

"Well, that's what Cas was offering."

"And you're okay with that?"

Dean just shrugs. Cas is coming out of the store, and there isn't anything else to say.

 

+

 

Dean gets it -- really gets it -- two days after they return to the bunker.

Cas spreads Dean out on the bed, face down, straddling Dean's hips as he leans down to kiss the back of Dean's neck. He inches his mouth down Dean's spine, everything soft and slow, lips and tongue and sometimes a hint of teeth, and he runs his hands up Dean's sides, sneaking his fingers under Dean's chest to tease his nipples before stroking back down. He sucks a wet, aching bruise into the small of Dean's back, and his thumb drifts down to flirt with the cleft of Dean's ass, just enough pressure to make Dean shake and twist on the bed.

He pushes Dean's legs farther apart, and Dean arches up slightly, expecting Cas to start opening him up, but Cas slides down the bed and presses his mouth to the back of Dean's knee. It tickles a little, but it also feels good, and Dean moans into the sheets, rolling his hips so he can rub his dick against the bed. Cas bites kisses up the inside of his thigh, then ducks back down to the other knee and works his way up again.

His tongue against Dean's hole is a sweet shock, and so is the hand that curls around his dick, sweat-slick and stroking him slow. He's already come once, so it's almost too much, there's no reason for Cas to be doing all this, except -- _except that he wants to_.

"Are you close?" Cas asks, his voice rough, and Dean shivers, choking out a, "Yes," as his hands scrabble at the sheets. Cas tightens the hand on Dean's dick; he says, "Come for me, I want to see it," and drags his tongue over Dean's hole again.

The tension in Dean's gut snaps all at once; he curses through it, hissing Cas name into the sheets, the Mark still thrumming on his arm but weakly, almost forgotten. 

"Hey," he says thickly, when he realizes the slick-wet sound behind him is Cas jacking off. "You said you were going to fuck me."

Cas says, "I won't last that long," and then moans throaty and low and comes against Dean's back.

 

+

 

Afterward -- after Cas has mojoed them clean and both of them have found their boxers -- Dean catches Cas hand, brushing his thumb over Cas' wrist. The Mark flickers like a dying candle.

"You should stay."

Cas smiles. "Okay."


End file.
